9.
Following Wednesday
Up ahead, Zach scans shelves of chocolates, honeys, sugar, flour and boxed mixes while she pushes a cart behind him down the baking aisle.
"Is this the one?" He grabs a box of pancake mix and dangles it within her field of sight.
She squints. "Yes. Don't forget syrup." He drops it in the cart and fetches a glass bottle of amber maple, then falls in line beside her.
Sulking along. Mute.
A blunt contrast to his younger self.
He loved coming to the grocery store with her when he was little. Each visit he made an adventure.
Either he played a game of hide-and-seek (hiding in view), zoomed down aisles, climbed her legs to escape a too friendly employee passing by, or dropped every item he could reach into their cart.
He reminded her today he's not little anymore when he nearly fought her to stay home to watch TV. As an almost teenager, any type of shopping with your mom—your pregnant mom—, she learned, is very uncool.
To his dismay, she overlooked this uncool.
Uninterrupted time they spent together was scarce. Prior to the baby coming, she's been on a stealth mission to show the kids—Zach mostly—her love for them will never change and that they will always come first.
As they bank down the breakfast and cereal aisle, she asks him about school. His friends. Why he's seemed withdrawn as of late.
All she receives are one-word responses.
"Is there anything you want to talk about?"
"No ..." He looks at her, face clouding. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." She smiles. "Just checking that you're good."
"I'm good, Mom." He stifles her inquiry as he steps aside and plucks a small box—pop-tarts—from a middle shelf. "May I get these?"
Her other pinned mission is he and Grace eating more fruit. A mission she is losing.
"Zach, why not choose a healthier option?"
He points to the bag of fruit at the bottom of the cart. "We have apples."
She sighs; gives in. "Yes. You may have those." He drops them atop the growing pile. "Eat them sparingly."
They return to crossing off the grocery list. Zach does the heavy lifting while she mandates and monitors. He steps back into his staunch quiet. Steering down another aisle, she reads more into what his lack of words could mean.
"Are you still mad?" she says, breaking their amenable silence.
He juts his hands in his pockets and side glances at her. "Mad?"
"About … me." She gestures toward her stomach, slightly poking outward from beneath her blouse. "The baby."
"Oh. I was never mad. I mean, it's fine, I guess." He shrugs, continues his leisure walk. "I ... I have a question, though."
She slows her pace, heart strumming. "Yeah?"
"Why did you and Dad wait until we were older to have a baby?"
She expels in an uneasy laugh. "Sometimes, how life unfolds does not always match your plans."
"So, the baby was not planned like Grandma said?"
She licks her lips, biting back a surly remark about Jackie. Meeting his simple gaze, she twiddles with the truth. One thing she's adamant about is being honest with the kids, no matter the circumstance.
"No," she drawls. "This baby was not planned, per se. But your dad and I, always wanted another. Time never ... met us in the middle."
He nods, resumes walking.
"Are you okay with that?" she says, attempting a peek beyond his slate profile.
He shrugs. All he does is shrug these days. Getting a solid answer out of him is like picking teeth.
"You know," she adds, "I wasn't so thrilled when your grandparents told me about your uncle Owen either."
That gets his attention. He looks at her; a hint of amusement blips on his face. "You weren't?"
"No. I threw a fit." He grins. "I remember the day clearly. I was six. I couldn't understand why they were ruining my life. Why I would have to share things. To make matters worse, they brought him home."
His grin broadens. "I don't remember when you brought Grace home."
"You were too young to understand, but you instantly loved her. You wanted to protect her, share all your toys, and called her 'my baby', when she wasn't crying of course."
"I was definitely little."
Her smile fades to sadness as it hits her: he is no longer her baby. He's a young man now, and she'll never get those days back. Moments like this, back.
"Would it be too Mom of me to hug you?"
Zach rolls his eyes; checks both ends of the aisle. No one is coming.
"Are you going to cry if we do?"
"No." Contrary to what her wet eyes display. He looks at her pointedly. "I will not cry. Promise." She bats away the dam lining her lower lids and smiles as big as she can.
He caves. "Okay. Quick."
She wraps her arms around him and holds on. "I love you," she whispers.
"Love you, too," he mumbles then jerks back. "Sorry!"
She resists doubling over in laughter from the plain horror on his face. He looks as if he saw the baby crawl from her body.
"It's fine, Zach."
"Did I ..." His wide eyes seesaw the span of her torso. "Did I hurt you?"
She snickers. "You did not."
So used to Peter and Grace fawning over her belly after a hug, she forgot Zach's intentional distance once she began to show.
Before she can offer him additional reassurance, he glances the other way, sliding his hands down the front of his jeans. "I forgot. I need a poster board for a project."
She takes stock of the half-full cart. "All right. Go get that. We're missing … bread, and then we can leave. We should be on time to pick up your sister from soccer practice."
He nods and trails off.
She watches him go, swiping at her eyes, determined to hang on to her promise.
Turning down the next aisle, she surveys the assortment of breads. As she reaches toward a shelf for a loaf, a searing pain shoots across her lower abdomen.
Her hand winds back; she grips the cart handle, expelling controlled breaths.
What was that?
For days now, she's felt a steady cycle of flutters. Soft kicks. Throughout the day and most at night.
That was not one of the typical acrobatics.
It passes, and she guesses a minute trickles on when she pivots upright and goes to reach again, resolving to get home stat.
Another spasm fires.
Stronger.
Deeper.
Holding onto the handle, she drops her head, eyes shutting and teeth clenching. Heavy breaths rock her chest.
What are you doing in there, little one?
"Ma'am, are you all right?" a male voice croons behind her.
She cups the base of her stomach and vehemently nods, puffing as the spasms, verging on quick stabs, lay into the lower right side of her abdomen, locking her in place.
"Are you sure?" His feet shuffle close to her. He smells of what she denotes as fabric softener and another sweet scent she can't define. Her senses roll over. Great. Now she needs a bucket. "Maybe we should find a place for you to sit down?"
"Mom?" Zach calls out.
Drawing in and blowing out another breath, Alicia focuses hard on the situation at hand. Forces herself to gather strength and pull it together for him.
"She is your mother?" says the man.
"Yes."
She hears Zach spend seconds wrangling something into the cart, ending in a theatric thud. One of his hands then covers hers bolted to the handle.
"I think your mother is in, pain, of some sort."
"Mom, what's wrong?" Zach's other hand splays on her back. "Should we call Dad?"
"No. No." She slowly straightens upright as the pain, thankfully, lessens. "I'm okay."
Her eyes open to Zach staring at her in sheer worry. Aware of the Good Samaritan standing idle, she sweeps to her left to behold a rugged, kind face. The man is older. His alert brown eyes examine her from beneath his Cubs baseball cap, pausing on her midsection.
"Thank you for your concern," she says, exhaling a sedated breath through her nose. "I'm fine now."
"Are you certain?"
Her brows rise; he's quick to explain.
"My daughter's expecting, too. My wife and I's first grandchild. Hasn't been a good experience so far. For my daughter. Seeing you reminded me of how she was during a recent bout …"
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"No need to be. Not your fault."
She darts a look at Zach, panic still stricken on his face. Covering his hand, she hopes her touch transcends as comfort and wills him to believe she is okay.
"Thank you again," she says to the man, "for stopping and checking. I am fine now."
"Not a problem."
"I wish your daughter well."
"Same to you." He looks to Zach. "Take care of your mother, young man." With a tip of his hat, he proceeds toward the opposite end of the aisle.
Zach takes over pushing the cart. She treads beside him, holding on with one hand, the other massaging her side, trying to focus and not worry.
"Mom, you don't look so good."
She almost asks what that means but swallows the question; she doesn't want to dwell.
"I'm okay, Zach."
"Was it the baby?"
"Y-yes. Sometimes I feel the baby move. It is not always pleasant." She looks down. I'm not sure if it was the baby. But she won't be as honest right now for fear of unhinging the brave front he's putting on. "I was uncomfortable for a moment. That is all."
"You're really good now?"
"I'm really good now." She checks the cart, adopting a chipper tone when she says, "I see you found a poster board."
"Yeah." He points to it jutting from the cart. "It was the last one."
"Okay, lets checkout."
They head to the register, not uttering another word on her hunched over moment.
. . .
Peter's weight shifts the bed, stirring her awake. Before she can turn over, he's molded to the curve of her backside, gently touching her arm and pecking her cheek.
"Mmmmm." She slants her head back, eyes closed, whispering, "You better make this quick before my husband comes home."
He chuckles low and rich against her ear. "You've been out a while."
She opens her eyes to check the clock: half past-five. The last she remembers is picking up Grace a little after four, driving them home and asking the kids to put away the groceries while she came up to lie down for a few minutes.
"It was a tiring day."
"I heard. Want some dinner? I picked up pizza, and that salad with the bread and dip from Green Leaf you like."
"Mm, no. I'm not hungry now. Maybe later."
"Are you feeling better?" He parks a hand on her belly atop the blanket. "Anymore pain?"
It just registers he's home earlier than usual. "Zach called you?"
"Yeah, I think he's still rattled."
She eases onto her back, peering up at his calm face. "He is? Grace, too?"
"He is." She palms her forehead, groaning. "Though he's trying to hide it. But both are fine. They want to make sure you're fine."
"I am."
He glides his hand along the underside of her bump. Resting hers on his forearm, they say nothing for a moment. Lying here with him like this has the power to dismiss her fear.
Render those two minutes in the bread aisle, nothing.
"When Zach called, for the first time I thought the worst ... you know, from all your appointments ..." She nods, blocking out the wrenching reminders. "What happened at the store?"
"I'm not sure." She drifts her eyes south. "One minute I was standing, reaching for a loaf of bread, then I felt a sharp pain."
"And it wasn't … the baby moving? Those little kicks you've been feeling?" She shakes her head. "Or—what did you say the other night?"
"The ligaments in my stomach stretching. From the baby growing. Could have been it. Possibly Braxton Hicks."
"'Braxton Hicks'?"
"False labor contractions. They are common."
His hand stills. "Contractions?"
"Not 'I'm in labor' contractions. They're more like, my body is simply preparing to have the baby. Remember I had them with Grace?"
"... You were farther along though."
"I was." An intentional fact she pushed to the shadows. Feeling them now, barely into the second trimester— "I've felt many things sooner during this pregnancy. What I felt today didn't last long. It was, just, intense."
"We should call Dr. Graves." He's rolling out of bed before she can stop him. She props up on her elbows.
"Peter, that's unnecessary. I have an appointment next week—"
"No risk is too small, right?"
Risk.
Her hate for the four-letter-word grows daily.
Peter fishes her cellphone from her purse and finds the number with her guidance.
She won't voice it, but she's glad he's calling. Telling herself it was nothing, it was her stomach muscles adjusting to the baby's growth, lasted all of five minutes.
Constant worry took over and moved in.
She listens to him battle with whoever answered about the late hour and demands they see her today.
He's showing a side she seldom sees and while she usually intervenes to calm him, convince him to think rationally, she knows it's useless in this case. His tendency to be overprotective peaked lately.
For a change, she didn't bat an eye.
In two minutes, in lieu of face-to-face, she's on the phone with her doctor. He spews extensive questions—Was there steady bleeding? A second occurrence? Spotting? Dizziness? Where was the pain dominant?—for another thirty.
She's as detailed as possible, benching sudden anguish from the recount. Today could have been worse. Her fears could have turned mortal.
Luckily, they didn't.
Satisfied from her report, and deeming her episode as ligament pain, Dr. Graves convinces Peter for another minute she doesn't need to go into the office.
Her poor doctor probably thought he was only treating one patient and received two.
Over the phone, he recommends increasing her hydration intake, orders a week of bed rest and pushes the appointment out a week. If anything changes between now and the next time they meet, she will go in without question.
The diagnosis and plan of care is enough.
They relax.
All is well.
. . .
Late that night, another pain disrupts her sleep.
It is gentler, quicker, in tandem with plenty of movement.
This time she smiles. "Hi, there ... You're not going to allow me to sleep, are you?"
The baby further lets her know everything is perfect inside when she feels another, semi-hard kick. She doesn't rouse Peter, sound asleep next to her, but relishes in the fleeting one-on-one moment.
And another.
"Okay. Okay"—her hand flies to her stomach—"that one hurt," she whispers, grimacing. "Thank you. I get it."
Today was a false alarm.
Yes, all is well.